


Walk-Ins Welcome

by alicekittridge



Series: Visions of the Past, Glimpses of Life [3]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Interlude, Mild Sexual Content, POV Third Person, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 13:53:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15487278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicekittridge/pseuds/alicekittridge
Summary: They sway, take in the silence and the other’s breathing, and Eve swears she hears the song floating from somewhere.





	Walk-Ins Welcome

**Author's Note:**

  * For [viagiordano](https://archiveofourown.org/users/viagiordano/gifts).



> Set sometime post-season 1. I have no idea what this so just bear with me.

“It’s encouraging to know you’ve called me such insulting things behind my back.”

            Eve jumps, steadying herself with a hand planted firmly against her dresser. “You’ve got to stop that,” she says. She sees Villanelle’s silhouette in the corner, barely visible, a soft halo of moonlight gracing the top of her head. Suddenly she remembers where she’s getting home from and wishes Villanelle had come later, when she was in pajamas instead of the dress Villanelle had sent her weeks ago. “You find insults encouraging?”

            But Villanelle doesn’t answer the question, instead says, “Did you have a date?”

            Eve sighs, reaches for the light. She’d been at a dance hall, of all places, invited by Elena and Kenny, munching on food, drinking gin and tonics, dancing with both of them until she’d spotted Niko across the way with bridge club pals. Their eyes had met and he’d smiled— _smiled,_ for Christ’s sake, after all she’d done!—and asked her to dance and it was like old times but with ice building between them. How easy it would’ve been to fall back on such normalcy, to lean her head against his chest and try to fix this crumbling marriage of theirs. How comforting it felt to have his arms around her, until reality and feelings were their bastard selves and made her pull away.

            “No, I didn’t have a date,” Eve says, bending down to take her pumps off. “I was at a dance hall.”

            “Oh,” Villanelle says. “I’m sorry I missed it.” The chair creaks and Eve feels her behind her, smells her perfume, feels her warmth. “Would you like to catch me up?”

            Eve nearly laughs. “There’s no music.”

            “I’m good at pretending.” Villanelle’s hand settles lightly on her waist, a polite touch that makes Eve inhale quietly.

            “Okay,” Eve says. She turns around, facing Villanelle at last, and is met with an interesting sight. Villanelle’s expensive clothes have blood on them, stark against her white jacket and shirt and matching slacks. Her face is bruised from a recent fight. “White was a poor choice of color for committing murder,” Eve says. “Who was it?”

            “Some bastard I didn’t expect to bleed on my nice suit,” Villanelle sighs, shrugging. “Just a CEO interfering with other business. Don’t know much more than that.” Both her hands are on Eve’s waist now, pulling her gently closer. “What dance would you like?”

            “I don’t know, just… something.” And they begin to sway to a slow rhythm, like a song is already playing from someone’s phone. Eve settles her arms on Villanelle’s shoulders, the fluttering in her stomach reminding her just how strange this is, how wrong, how dangerous. Yet she’d cast it aside just weeks ago, when they’d ended up in bed together, or when, just days after, she’d found herself wanting it all over again but the woman in question was nowhere around to sate that desire. It pools warmly in her gut, and Eve can’t tell whether it’s the disheveled look and bloody clothes or the closeness of their bodies that causes it.

            “What song is playing, right now?” Villanelle asks. She’s a decent dancer, Eve realizes. She wonders where Villanelle learned this, if at all, or if she’s always had such natural rhythm.

            “Etta James, I think.” She steps a little closer, sees Villanelle’s eyes land on her lips. Villanelle smiles at that.

            “Eve Polastri,” she says, “the sap with a dark side.”

            They sway, take in the silence and the other’s breathing, and Eve swears she hears the song floating from somewhere. She reaches up and takes the pins from Villanelle’s hair, dropping them to the floor before running her hands through it. Villanelle leans to kiss her. It’s soft but passionate, filled with want. Eve wonders how long Villanelle had waited in that chair, whether or not she’d thought about her, if her hand had slid into her slacks—

            “I should clean up,” Villanelle says suddenly. “It’s fresh enough to get on your dress.”

            Oh. Right. Blood. She’d murdered someone before this dance. “Right,” Eve says, stepping away. The song fades, replaced with silence and lust. “Shower’s just—”

            “Down the hall.” Villanelle is already shrugging out of the jacket. “You’ll want to bleach these when you wash them.”

            The clothes end up a pile outside the bathroom, warm from her skin, smelling of her and someone’s blood. Eve takes them to the washer and pours in the bleach. Then she goes back to the bedroom and collapses on the bed, serenaded by the washer’s hum and the shower. Her lips tingle. Places lower than that ache, but in the most pleasant way. She scrapes her nails over the inside of a thigh, only allowing that, nothing more. She’d talked of starting over and wants to again, wonders if that’s all these little moments of stolen time are. Making up for damage. Apologizing with kisses and star-filled orgasms. Wishing the caress of her lips over the scar she’d made would be enough to make it vanish.

            “It seems the astronaut’s floated away,” Villanelle says. She’s leaning against the door, hair combed, wearing only a dark bathrobe that had once been Niko’s. Her eyes are on Eve’s hand, which hadn’t strayed from her thigh. “Have you reached Mars?”

            “With a little help I might,” Eve says. She stands, turns her back. Immediately Villanelle steps to her, and her fingers find the zipper. She drags it down slowly, like the dress is a bomb to diffuse, her knuckle travelling down Eve’s spine. Eve shivers; already her breathing is quick. She curses what a single, light touch from Villanelle reduces her to. She puts her shoulders forward so that the straps are easier to slide off, and the dress becomes a pool of fabric around her ankles. Villanelle moves her hair to one shoulder and her lips find the other, kissing there, sucking, tracing a path to her neck; all the while hands travel up her sides until they cup her breasts.

            “I don’t feel like gentle,” Villanelle murmurs. “I’ll be rougher with you.”

            The idea of rougher hits Eve like a sucker-punch. “God,” she says, turning around, kissing Villanelle hard, “yes.” She’s propelled to the bed, shoved down, swiftly straddled. She reaches up to undo the tie of the robe, stares when it parts. Why is it such a marvelous sight? Eve wonders. Is it because Villanelle is a woman? Or because Eve is unbearably attracted to her, and being so is violating a few morals? She pulls Villanelle closer and kisses her again, feeling a hand travelling south, gasping at the first touch, and then—oh, shit—Villanelle is following that hand with lips. “Yes,” Eve says, again, a statement of ecstasy and permission.

            The room feels claustrophobic, like it’s closing in and will explode the moment climax hits. She’s being devoured, and she feels Villanelle’s anger behind every stroke but also hears her enjoyment with every pause for breath. It’s a soft almost-moan that sends her over the edge, her breath shuddering inside her lungs. She feels Villanelle slide back up, and then they’re kissing clumsily; she tastes herself along with Villanelle’s lipstick.

            “What do you feel when you kill someone?”

            Eve is on top now, Villanelle’s fingers leaving bruises on her thighs.

            “Elation,” Villanelle replies breathlessly. “Gratification—almost like a good orgasm, but it’s like dangling on the edge of one.”

            “And when do you feel satisfied?”

            “When I’ve seen their soul go in after giving up and the light leave their eyes.”

            It shouldn’t make her shudder, but it does. Just the thought of Villanelle lingering over someone, watching them struggle on the precipice of life and death, is fascinating and terrifying. It reminds her of cruel children watching a bug dying after fatally wounding it, curiosity and a fucked-up sort of glee shining on their faces.

            Eve kisses her just as she goes over, absorbing Villanelle’s heavy gasp and the whimper that follows, swallowing them, saving it for later. She can’t help but remember the first time she’d heard that whimper, when the knife had sunk deep and there was red. It should’ve been this, she thinks; the two of them meeting eyes, naked and basking in what they’ve just done, the fact that they’d just had sex.

            “Could I stay for a while?” Villanelle asks later. Their hands nearly kiss between them.

            Eve nods. It’s terrible, but at this point, Villanelle may not even have to ask.

 

—

Like smoking or going out for a drink, the dance hall becomes a thing too. It occupies Friday nights and Eve’s mind, makes it feel like her life is fun again and not filled with constant storms. But as the crowds thin and the music gets softer, Eve’s mind wanders and she ponders if anyone will be waiting for her. Villanelle is gone again and her house is quiet without her company. In the darker hours, she doesn’t even think of Niko. In those hours, she wishes the pillow she was laying on was Villanelle’s chest.

            The song ends and Elena emerges from the crowd, plopping herself in the chair across from Eve, out of breath.

            “Aren’t you going to get out there sometime tonight?” she asks, taking a gulp from her water glass. “You’re missing all the fun, sitting here with your gin.”

            “I’m waiting for a good song,” Eve says.

            The DJ comes on and announces he’ll be playing a wedding favorite. As soon as the strings start, Eve knows what song it is.

            “This one,” she says, and beckons Elena to the dance floor.

            “God, and to think you once called _me_ romantic. Have I missed something or has Eve Polastri failed to tell me some of her deepest thoughts?”

            “Some. But you knew I liked dancing.”

            “Did you dance to this at your wedding or something?” Elena asks.

            They had. And it’d been good. She and Niko had been in their own bubble, the world far away. But it’d been what she imagined when she was dancing with Villanelle; it’d been what led to sex. The memory makes her stomach hot and her legs weaker, but she manages to get through the whole song before she has to stumble back to the table and down the rest of her drink.

 

            _Clair de Lune_ is playing from somewhere in the house; Eve hears it floating all the way from the front door. The washer is running too; there’s no telling what part of the cycle it’s in. Eve leaves her shoes by the front door and follows the music through her dark house. She finds its source: the master bathroom. The door is cracked, letting a strip of golden light shine onto the carpet. Through it she glimpses a pair of bare legs propped up on the side of the tub, suds running down them. She swallows, knocks softly before opening the door. It’s Villanelle. She’d found the bubble soap at the back of the under-the-sink cabinet and indulged herself. It’s lavender scented, and it somehow suits her.

            “You have a nice bath,” Villanelle says.

            Eve comes in all the way, shutting the door; she sits on the edge of the tub. Underneath the bubbles, the water has a pinkish hue, no doubt from blood. “What’s with Debussy?”

            “I may have had a bit of fun with a corrupt concert pianist. Too bad, really; she had lovely hands, despite their sharp nails.” Villanelle turns her head, showing a row of scratches on her cheek, red and angry. “She played this song beautifully.”

            “Does that need cleaned?” Eve asks, getting up in search for peroxide.

            Villanelle’s voice is soft but firm when she says, “I can do it myself, thank you. Just… give me a cotton ball.”

            Eve does as she’s told. She hands Villanelle a makeup mirror too, so she can see what she’s doing. There’s no need to watch but her eyes keep wandering to Villanelle anyway, taking in the harder look on her face, the way her eyes are guarded but so full of thought. She’s dabbing the cuts with a practiced hand. How many times has she done this, over the years?

            “Where were you?” Eve asks eventually.

            “Austria,” Villanelle says, leaning to the faucet and turning the hot tap. “You know it’s where _The Sound of Music_ was filmed?”

            “Yeah. It’s a classic.”

            “Austria prides themselves on music. Their concert halls are ridiculous.”

            “Fancy?” Eve says.

            “ _Very_.”

            The bubbles are lower. Eve averts her eyes and keeps them politely on the wall.

            “So modest,” Villanelle says softly, teasing. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

            “Would you rather I stared?”

            “Yes. Now turn around and dip your feet in.” She turns the water off, sits up straighter.

            Eve turns, brings her feet up so they clear the edge of the tub, and lowers them into the soapy water, sighing at the heat, disregarding the fact that the water is pink with the concert pianist’s blood. “This is all I’m dipping in.” She doesn’t remember the last time she’d had a bubble bath, or dipped her feet into one. Sometime with Niko? Sometime before then? A hand gently grasping one ankle brings her out of her thoughts. Villanelle is close, close enough that Eve can feel her breath on her shin. She almost laughs. “Do you have a thing for feet?”

            “No. You have good legs.” Both hands now, one travelling to her calf and massaging it. “Shapely.” She leans in and presses a kiss just below Eve’s knee. It’s an innocent place to kiss and yet it sends a wave of heat washing over her.

            “But nothing for feet.”

            “Feet should be the last thing on everyone’s list.” Villanelle’s lips move higher and, on autopilot, Eve moves the hem of her skirt up to grant her more access. Eve’s hand finds Villanelle’s face—the side that’s untouched by scratches—and cups it. Yet the lips stop on her inner thigh, and Villanelle asks, “What’s this?” She moves her hand from Eve’s calf and strokes the small scar with her thumb.

            “Oh.” It was the wound Eve had inflicted on herself with a kitchen knife when she’d been studying the first man that’d cropped up. Bled out from a tiny incision to the femoral artery. “It’s from… studying.”

            Villanelle nods, says nothing; her eyes are knowing. She presses one last kiss to the scar and pulls away with a sigh. _Clair de Lune_ had ended a while ago. “Have you had dinner?” she asks, plucking the drain.

            Eve shakes her head no. There’d been food at the dance hall, though it was only the typical finger-food. Nothing to satisfy. “I’ll run get something,” she says. Something was bound to be open this late. She backs away to the door, staring as Villanelle climbs out of the bath and towels off, staring until she wraps herself in a bathrobe that hadn’t been there before.

 

—

She doesn’t feel too guilty about almost snapping at Eve earlier, when she’d offered to clean her face. She knows Eve doesn’t know just what demons those very words surface; that, she can forgive. Villanelle ties the robe a little too tightly and rummages hastily through the drawers in search of a bandage. Another Debussy song begins to play from her phone, one she doesn’t know the name of. It’s soft, like _Clair de Lune_ had been, slightly happier-sounding.

            _She knocks, the door opens, and she’s standing in the doorway. Anna’s face goes from happy to worried._

_“Oksana,” she says, “what’s happened to your face?” And she beckons her in, flocking immediately to the bathroom. “Schoolyard fights again?”_

_“It stings.”_

_“Here, come here, my darling. Let’s get that blood off your face.”_

_She sits on Anna’s vanity stool, basking in the closeness of the air, her smell, the crease between Anna’s brows that appears when she’s deep in focus, her gentle hands dabbing at the cuts on her brow and the split in her lip. The taste of peroxide reminds her of homemade toothpaste used for whitening teeth. The cuts sting worse with the disinfectant, but that’s how you know it works. The air becomes clearer when Anna steps away to find a small bandage, becomes foggy again when she leans in to tape it over Oksana’s brow._

_“There,” says Anna, smiling a little now, bending so that she’s level with Oksana’s eyes. “They’ll heal a little faster.”_

_The smile fades when she realizes where Oksana’s eyes have been travelling, fades more when, on an impulse she’s felt many times, Oksana presses her lips to Anna’s. The first kiss of many, though she doesn’t know it. Anna kisses back, even lets a hand fall onto her shoulder, but then she pulls away, almost violently—_

Villanelle slams a drawer shut and tears the bandage’s paper away. She places the bandage against her cheek and carefully tapes it in place. She feels hot, like she should run laps around Eve’s neighborhood until her legs turn to jam, but there’s dinner to be had, and there’s want underneath this hot anger that she longs to put to use. There’ll be time to kiss Eve later, she tells herself, bending to pick her phone up from the floor. She pauses the song with a too-rough touch.

            Having nothing better to do, Villanelle sets the table, takes down a few bottles of wine for them to try. She has yet to reveal the present she’d gotten for Eve in Austria: an expensive, cherry-red coat made of fine wool and a black scarf to go with it. It’s autumn, after all, and she knows Eve’s winter wardrobe is rather drab, the colors lacking in compliment. The table set, she leaves the dishes waiting and finds herself in the sitting room gazing at a bookshelf. Most of it is empty and dusty, waiting for more books; the shelves that aren’t empty have DVDs and Blu-Ray boxes. Below them are books, one of which is titled _When Women Kill._ Villanelle plucks it, marks the place with a glance. “Wow,” she says. So _this_ is what Eve likes to read: non-fiction, and about female killers. “You really are fascinated with this shit.” With me, Villanelle thinks, and something curls in her stomach. She puts the book back and turns her attention to the movies. _The Sound of Music,_ _Casa Blanca, Breakfast At Tiffany’s, Roman Holiday…_ A handful of classics, of which Villanelle has only seen one. The TV isn’t very large, but the sofa is big enough for two…

            The front door unlocks and she goes back to the kitchen, placing herself beside Eve, who, of course, will sit at the head of the table. She hears the rustling of a plastic bag and keys being put into a bowl. Eve comes into the kitchen with a sigh. Her hair is damp.

            “It’s spitting,” Eve says, setting the takeout on the table. “What’s with the wine?”

            “Thought we could see what compliments dinner the best. Shall I pour it?”

            Dinner is Thai food from a restaurant Villanelle has never been to. After trying the noodles she practically shoves her helping into her mouth. It’s delicious. She’ll have to mark this restaurant down and visit it the next time she’s here. She empties her glass of red wine and replaces it with white; this one tastes sweeter, isn’t as dry. Perfect.

            “I saw your books,” Villanelle says. “Interesting choice of reading material, though I hardly find it surprising.”

            “I see.”

            “Could we watch one of your movies?”

            Eve meets her eyes, looking amused and… fond? Happy? What is the crinkle of her eyes? “This late?” she asks.

            “No, not tonight,” Villanelle clarifies. “But soon.”

            Eve shrugs, goes back to twirling noodles around her chopsticks. “It’ll depend on work and all that, but sure. Soon.”

            Again that strange emotion curls itself in Villanelle’s stomach, blending with the want from earlier. She inhales, exhales, chews her lip. “Pass me a fortune?”


End file.
